Erringden Ellipse

Warm sunshine tempered by a pleasant breeze Spring Bank holiday Monday, we discussed options for an outing.  Phil searched for more magic stones, all some distance away while I perused the map.  Seeing a much closer outcrop labelled ‘Foster’s Stone’, I proposed a shorter walk to find it.  I assembled a makeshift lunch before we headed to the other side of the valley.  On Palace House Road, fallen fluffy catkins resembled dust on the pavement.  We crossed to take upward paths and scenes of heaving streets in the town below, a riot of bluebells giving the illusion of violet fields and jackdaws hopping between scattered stones.  Meadows on the hillside beyond shone gold with wild buttercups.

Climbing up the western edge of Crow Nest, a man built a fire, which seemed odd on a hot day.  Emerging on New Road, we eschewed the lumpy grass option and continued on cobbles.  Shocking pink clover and yellow dandelions splattered the verges.  Downy seed heads formed perfect circles.

Old Chamber quite busy with campers, we peeped in the honesty box but finding only eggs on sale, didn’t fancy carting them round all afternoon.

We ascended gently up Back Lane, pursued by a teenager on an undersized motorbike and through a gate into fields where strange mounds and spooky dead trees evoked the holy land.

Passing through another gate, we found ourselves at right angles to the path from the pylon.  We turned left alongside stone walls and across several more stiles than I recalled, to eventually meet up with the next junction.  A sheepdog squatted on the corner of Pinnacle Lane.  Not wanting to be rounded up, we waited behind a creaky metal gate for the accompanying human to appear before proceeding.

Picturesque to start, the last part of the lane proved tricky.  Nasty flies lurked in a muddy quagmire as a group of walkers with a tiny dog came the opposite way, requiring some dodging.

We turned right through a notably new wooden gate, and searched for a suitable picnic spot alongside the brook.  Among the mysterious rocks, we espied a nice flat one and stepped carefully between tussocks and delicate cuckoo flowers, buzzing with bees and small heath butterflies

After eating, we followed the tree line along the top of Horsehold Wood, gazing down on more bluebells clumping hazily amid tall grass.

Phil thought he spotted Foster’s Stone, but with other outcrops nearby as well as apparently carved stones, it was hard to be sure.   They required examination from the lower paths when we next ventured into the woods.

Approaching the last gate, a sharp pain in my foot necessitated a pause to remove a sharp plant spike.  Our knees ached taking the final steep descent on Horsehold Road.  We paused at a field where supine sheep grazed on overgrown grass.  A mother and lamb lay comically at right angles. “Push-me-pull-ewe!” The breeze refreshing up Erringden, it dropped significantly lower down, making us rather hot. Luckily, we made it home before heatstroke set in.

Midgley Moor Revisited

On officially the hottest March day since 1968, we decided it was about time we re-visited Midgley Moor.  We set off for the square, got pasties from the bakers and rounded the corner to wait for a bus up to Lane Ends.  Alighting at the Hare and Hounds, we retraced the route we took in 2016, up Popples Lane towards Dick Lane, and turned left until we reached the track opposite a farmhouse up to the gate signed Calderdale Way.  A jogger descending the moor left the gate off the latch as she saw us approach, wishing us a good walk.  Their size resembling cattle from a distance, large sheep scarpered from the path as others eyed us warily from the feeder in an adjacent field.  As we headed upwards, upcoming heather stretched towards the horizon dominated by the windmills of Ovenden Moor.

On the ridge, emerald patches of grasses and moss punctuated lines of russet, burnt sienna and yellow ochre.  We left the main path for less navigable boggy patches, moor ponds and tussocks, to peruse the plethora of mysterious stones.  Many remembered from our last visit, the expanse of stone circles and monoliths seemed more remarkable than ever.  Spotting the familiar Greenwood Stone from the carved date 1777, we made use of it to shelter from the stiff breeze and ate our pasties.  Lost in a world of wonder, we hadn’t noticed hard-looking sheep staring at us in a warning fashion.  “I think we’d better go. They obviously think they own the place.”  “Well, they kind of do.”  We walked in a straight line to the large boulder (identified previously as Robin Hood’s Pennystone).  The legendary outlaw may or may not have been a giant, but superhuman strength was certainly required to haul it into place.  A little further behind, we explored Miller’s Grave and wondered over smaller stones scattered upon the landscape before returning to the main path via a cleared stretch, enjoying the crunch of desiccated heather roots underfoot.

Although fairly certain of the direct route, we double-checked with a couple striding down the slope.  At the trig point, late afternoon sun made angular shadows against chalky white.  Curlews swooped and hovered in an azure sky, almost within touching distance.  As the paths diverged again, we veered right, not caring we would bypass churn milk Joan.   Narrow paths led down towards Old Town.  As a fence barred our way, Phil thought we had to double-back to the golf course and started climbing.  A Tornado jet roared past.  It looked so close, I ducked!  Glancing behind, a man ran across a stile and grateful for confirmation of a right of way, we descended to the rutted farm track.  Worse for wear but not too muddy, we continued alongside a field bizarrely displaying ‘no person’ signs.  “What are the stiles meant to be for? Sheep?” 

At the corner of the field, a narrower path led straight down to Heights Road where a bus whizzed by.  We proceeded to the pub to find the couple we’d seen on the moor chatting to the driver of a car in the middle of the lane.  From the carpark, I noseyed over to a friend’s garden but was unable to see her.  The male half of the couple greeted us.  It turned out they now owned the pub and gave us some gen on re-opening and extending the patio since the pigs had gone to Cragg Vale (no doubt to be made into sausages).  Tired and thirsty, we squatted on a wall a little further down.  Phil asked if it was the right place for the bus.  “No, but I don’t know when the next one is.”  At that moment, one stopped on Billy Lane.  Cursing, we tried to run up to the corner but didn’t make it.  More swearing ensued as we moodily made our way down the road on foot, cutting the corner at Birchcliffe.  We were soon back in town where we were stopped by an acquaintance wanting prints of photos we’d taken of his houseboat and made a quick visit to the shop before wearily trudging home.

Nutclough in May

A glorious second week in May was marred somewhat with recurring bouts of sinusitis and an altercation with a neighbour, raising my anxiety and stress levels.  Following an exhausting Saturday afternoon hacking shrubs and clearing up outside, we were determined to have some R&R on Sunday. I suggested a short walk as I was still not strong enough to go far.  We walked to the very end of the street, noting lots of hedgerow flowers, then round and down to the buttress.

At the bottom, we took Hangingroyd Lane to climb the steps opposite the little park and along Unity Street into Nutclough.

The stream was very low, with additional crossing points to the islands.  I was able to get much closer to the small waterfall than usual and marvelled at how much difference a short dry spell could make.

We spent a considerable time surrounded by the beautiful colours. Trees displayed an array of greens; bluebells topped walls and ridges; smatterings of yellow punctuated the palette.

The water was so blue and the reflections of trees so still that it looked like the sky.  The area became busy we families as we relaxed on the bench.

We escaped up to the top path and walked along to the stone bridge, where we debated which route to take.  We opted for the second path on the left, up towards the meadows.

A dinky craggy path led between small trees and bushes which I deduced had been planted since we last came this way.  At the top, two guys with dogs sat next to a steep stone stile.

On crossing, one of the dogs started following and pestering us.  We started up the grass path bisecting the flower meadow, resplendent with dandelions as a precursor to summertime blooms.  Put off by wandering cows, we backed down and searched for another route avoiding the canines but failed. Clambering back over the stile, being pestered again, we started to follow the line of the wall.  It became very tussocky and the darn dog followed us!  Defeated, we made our way back to the proper path.   I picked up the pace as we descended.  Phil called me to wait for him (makes a change).

I hadn’t realised, but I must have taken a right-hand fork somewhere and emerged at the bottom of the cobbled lane leading up to Hurst Road.  We jumped down a bit of a drop where there might have been steps once.  A smaller, unexplored path opposite looked enticing and we decided to be adventurous and follow it, only to soon emerge onto the original top path!  Phil thought it was hilarious.

We headed towards the main entrance when I suggested that as it was a day for exploring new paths, we should try the small flight of stone steps leading further up.   We found ourselves in a small wooded area, carpeted with bluebells and garlic flowers.

Continuing up to a gate, a passive/aggressive notice on the other side declared it part of a private garden – it’s aright for some!  We emerged onto a long driveway, curving round yet more bluebell woods.  At the bottom, the stone gatepost displayed the name ‘Arnsbrae’.  How many times had we passed that without noticing it? We walked down Keighley Road and into town.

In search of a refreshing pop, the cafes in the square were packed and the nearby shop shut.  We found spaces at Rendezvous on Bridge Gate.  Phil secured an outside table while I went in for drinks.  Then he decided he was hungry.  We were given both daytime and evening menus.  I settled on a wrap when we were informed that the daytime menu had just become unavailable.  We shared a hot meze off the evening menu – very tasty albeit rather more food than we had intended.

Exactly a year on, I could not resist the allure of Nutclough in May.  There is something almost magical about the place, with bluebells on top of the wall seemingly clinging to a cliff, the almost- surreal greenery and vibrant reflections in the water.  Copper butterflies flitted among the flowers while  ladybirds grazed on bramble leaves.

 

Yet more new steppingstones had been installed onto the island and a new stream had appeared, leading from the diminutive waterfalls.  We settled on the sunken bench for refreshments when a family headed our way.  As they had a dog, I thought better of exposing our sausages rolls (albeit veggie ones!) Instead, we walked towards the weir and up the ‘Crow steps’ into the treetops.

My bad ankle gave me severe grief on the climb coupled with pain in my opposite leg but I soldiered on.  Reaching the row of houses at the top, we tried to find a different route back down to the clough and ended up in a posh garden.  A woman on the other side of a gate called to us, saying we could go through.  As we did so, she asked: “how are you?” I didn’t recognise her but later realised she was a former neighbour).  She was looking for a cat which I spotted a bit further down.  She thanked us and we walked alongside the white house, down to the stone bridge, always littered with beech leaves.  We crossed to head up the track to Hirst Road.  I remembered the first path up to Fearney Field being unpleasant, and continued to the next one, across the stile.

Having been spooked last year by cows, Phil went ahead to check the coast was clear.  Only a docile rabbit grazed.  We sat on the wall and took our time enjoying our snacks in the warm sunshine. Aeroplanes headed straight up in a blue sky, looking as if they were heading for the half moon.  Returning via Joan Wood, my Achilles heel pain flared up again on the brief but tricky descent.  Back in town, the place heaved making us disinclined to linger.

More photos at: https://1drv.ms/f/s!AjkK19zVvfQtivlkNDXZiRdvlHh4cg; https://1drv.ms/f/s!AjkK19zVvfQti6h30Ta4d5lGdTcZVg

 

Horsehold to Cock Hill

In July 2013, almost a year after my last day at work, in the midst of battling my employers I felt highly stressed.  To take our mind off things, we planned a summer visit to Stoodley Pike.

We climbed up Horsehold Road to the hamlet of the same name.  It suddenly dawned on us that the collection of old farm buildings was once a village and could be used as a location for historical TV dramas.

Continuing to Pinnacle Lane, we headed upwards until a herd of huge cows blocked our way.

Due to my heightened adrenaline levels, and Phil convinced that all cows were intent on murder, I became panicky and refused to go any further.

We turned back and took ‘Crag Lane’ until we emerged onto the pleasingly named Cock Hill Moor.  This proved tussocky but dry underfoot due to a good summer.

Round the corner, we could see Halifax to our right and the Upper end of the Calder valley to our left for fantastic panoramas.

 

Finding a spot where the tussocks thinned out somewhat, we sat to enjoy a picnic and picked out landmarks and other walking routes we knew.  On our descent, we were fairly confident on the way to Spencer Lane.  However, we were mistaken and had to double back down a steep slope.  I managed this okay but unfortunately Phil twisted his bad ankle.

More photos at: https://1drv.ms/f/s!AjkK19zVvfQtiutl1BV2OWcnb2oHjw